


All I Want

by samwise_baggins



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8906665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwise_baggins/pseuds/samwise_baggins
Summary: All Steve wants is to finish Bucky's Christmas present.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steve-Bucky-Stucky (Chemical30)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical30/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to my friend and co-writer!

Trembling, Steve Rogers pushed the woolen blanket off his thin frame, shuddering at the whoosh of cold air radiating over his thin-clad body. Scrabbling from bed, the blond-haired, blue-eyed twenty-three year old man immediately reached for his trousers, shirt, sweater, and socks. Quickly. Steve donned his clothes to block out the intense cold of the lowly heated apartment in late December. He paused, listening to see if his best friend and roommate, James _‘Bucky’_ Barnes, would return; Steve smiled, coughing into one hand.

Steve pulled out his chair at the old scarred desk in his room and sank onto the creaky piece of furniture. Coughing again, annoyed by the lingering symptom from the severe cold he’d recently gone through, Steve pulled open his bottom drawer and pulled out the battered cardboard-bound sheaf of drawing papers. Opening to the page he’d been working on a few weeks earlier, before being struck ill and limiting his energy use to making work and trying not to be sent to the hospital, Steve smoothed down the edges of his drawing.

He pulled out his pencil tin and frowned softly upon finding only one remained. Hopefully, it would be enough to produce the rest of the yet mostly unfinished art work. All he wanted was to finish the Christmas present for his best friend, to show Bucky how appreciated he was. Steve began to work carefully, the lines flowing quickly as he envisioned his subject.

The time flowed just as smoothly and Steve found he’d run out of pencil almost precisely as the church bells rang out at noon. Blinking into awareness, Steve automatically stood and hid away his incomplete drawing then headed into the kitchenette to pull out some leftover chicken and day-old bread from the small ice box. Putting together a sandwich and pouring the remainder of the milk into a glass, Steve ate his lunch quickly, worrying over the unfinished present. Glancing over at the small window, a frown crossed his full lips and pale cheeks, almost making the man look like an angelic choir boy rather than a full grown, if slightly built, adult.

The beginnings of snow fluttered down outside the glass.

A slow smile chased the frown away and Steve stood, putting his dishes in the old porcelain sink, telling himself he’d wash up later. He moved across the apartment in quick, sure steps, smothering the ever lingering cough behind his hand. Steve pulled out his personal money, the few coins every paycheck that didn’t go into the joint funds for food and board. Counting out the small store, he pocketed the sum and nodded. He’d gone through a significant amount to cover medicine, but he had enough to buy some pencils and another book of drawing paper.

He pulled on his shoes then his galoshes, his scarf, winter coat, gloves, and woolen cap, Steve headed out, intent on running his errand before the weather got worse or Bucky came home from work; he didn’t like the idea that Bucky might worry about him being outside so soon after his severe cold had threatened to reactivate his asthma and put him in the hospital for Christmas. Steve hurried down several blocks towards the market district.

Swirling snow ripped at the edges of his woolen coat, trying to tear it open despite the wooden toggles fastening it shut. Steve hunched down, his thin frame trembling continually in the December cold, shuddering harder more and more often as the icy wind cut through his layers of clothing to pierce to his bones. Lungs aching, threatening to seize in retaliation for his continued exposure, Steve coughed again, a hoarse, wracking sound. Despite the woolen cap he wore, snow plastered tendrils of blond hair to his temples and ears where the hat rucked up. He buried his gloved hands deep in the pockets of his coat as he squinted into the wind, trying to protect his vibrant blue eyes while trying to see his way through the driving storm. How quickly the weather had worsened over the few minutes he’d been outside.

Stopping in front of his destination, Steve let his thin shoulders sag. A variety of goods strategically sat in the window, luring shoppers as much as the festive seasonal decorations. But the very stillness of the store, the darkness beyond the frost-fogged window, sent worry through Steve: the store had closed because of the storm. He would have to find what he wanted further down the street.

Drawing a breath, coughing again, Steve began his quest once more, hoping he hadn’t journeyed into the increasingly bad weather for nothing.

Hunching into the icy wind, snow stinging sharply over his exposed cheeks and chin, Steve trudged through the slush and new-fallen drifts until he arrived at the next store. Blinking slowly, Steve pulled a hand from his coat and wiped at his face to clear the flakes away. A soft frowned crossed his face but slowly flipped into a determined smile. The store was lit and a radio seemed to be playing the afternoon show from inside.

Steve pushed the shop door open and called out “Hello? Mr. Sherman?” Steve rubbed his hands together, trying to work the cold out and some heat in.

The owner of the shop came from behind the counter, jacket over one arm and a look of surprise on his face. “Steve Rogers . . . I’m about to close. This storm is bad and my bones say it’ll get worse.”

Nodding, Steve said, “I won’t take long, Sir. I promise. All I want is some pencils and . . .”

“Sorry, Mr. Rogers,” the shop owner shook his head and finished pulling his coat on. Reaching over, he grabbed a ring of keys from behind the counter. “Don’t have anything like that this week. The new delivery didn’t come in yesterday and I sold the last pencils two days ago.” Putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder, Mr. Sherman turned Steve towards the door and guided him out. “Maybe the toy store has some?”

Nodding, Steve let the store owner guide him out the door and back into the storm. Not bothering to watch Mr. Sherman close up shop, Steve shuffled towards the next store in line, desperate enough to try every store if needed. He really wanted to finish that present for Bucky.

It took slightly longer to make it to the third store because of the increased wind and weather. Steve glanced up at the toy store and his face almost crumpled before he slid into resignation as familiar as an old coat. It was closed, of course. A bad snowstorm on Christmas Eve was bound to shut down all of the stores early, especially a toy store.

On to the next, another closed shop, and Steve began to feel his desperation well up again. There were only three more stores on this street . . . and he still had to make it back to the apartment to work on the gift he had yet to finish.

A warm glow of light spilled onto the deceptively white ground before him and Steve carefully picked his way across the increasingly treacherous snow-covered slush to the door of the miraculously still open store. He’d never dared enter this business establishment before; everything in the window seemed too perfect and pretty to be affordable. Steve opened the door, hearing a small bell ring, alerting the woman dusting some tiny figurines on a shelf.

He had to give her silent credit; when she turned around, she never changed expression despite the wet, disreputable look of her erstwhile customer. Steve greeted politely, “ma’am, Merry Christmas. I’ve come for some pencils - - uh, and paper, please?”

A smile crossed the woman’s narrow face and she nodded almost enthusiastically. “Nasty weather to come all this way. Merry Christmas to you, too, Sir. The art and writing supplies are right here,” and she hurried to a small display of colored pencils in a decorative tin and little paint pots gathered in a box, along with pens and paper of varying thickness.

Steve’s eyes couldn’t fail to light up at the wonderful, if small, bounty of art supplies. What he could do with access to those . . . but he tamped down the daydreams. He only needed a few pencils, not an entire studio. With a soft smile, he asked, “Ma’am, how much are the plain pencils, please? And a small book of drawing paper?” He suspected the supplies might drain his small amount of funds; the store seemed the sort to cater to high end clientele, not the regular joes off the street. But he could make an exception this once, for Christmas.

Briefly consulting a small book she had in her apron pocket, the woman gave prices for both art supplies, and Steve’s hopes evaporated completely. Eyes widening, sure he must’ve heard wrong, Steve slowly said, “are you certain, Ma’am? In the general mercantile down the street, they cost two thirds that amount. Maybe you looked at the wrong line in your book?”

The smile still in place, the kindness in her eyes deepening into something between sympathy and pity, the woman checked again. She repeated the same exorbitant prices. “I’m sorry, young man, but this shop is patronized by students of the arts from the university, as well as foreigners studying in our city. Our products . . . are priced to match the clientele not to compete with other establishments.”

Steve nodded; at least she had been kind in explaining they jacked the prices for their wealthy clients. “I see that, Ma’am, but can you make an exception for Christmas?” Steve hated begging, or sounding like he was begging, but he really wanted to do this for Bucky. Else there would be nothing on the table for his best friend come morning. “All I want is a pencil for a present. I’ve been too sick to come out sooner or I would have.”

She nodded. “The pencils are sold in sets, not individually. I understand you problem, but I cannot alter the rules. This isn’t my shop, and I’ll lose my position.”

Steve didn’t want to get her fired for the holiday so he held up his gloved, trembling hands and shook his head. “Never mind, ma’am. There’s another store further down. I’ll check there. Merry Christmas, and thank you.”

She smiled still kindly and walked him to the exit, staying behind in the dry warmth as he trudged back into the howling snow.

Despite the increased cold, the slowly debilitating numbness, Steve managed to check the next store fairly shortly, but they told him they didn’t carry artist’s supplies. Steve turned towards the last store with a heart growing heavier at each step. If this store didn’t carry it, he’d have to try another street.

Finally, Steve stopped just in front of the display window, and there was a set of neatly packaged pencils in a wooden box with a price tag clearly denoted. It was affordable. The pencils would take all the spending money he carried, but it was in his ability to afford. He’d forgo the drawing pad just to get the pencils. Smiling, Steve headed for the door just as the church bells intoned a somber peal of three in the afternoon. The store’s lights flipped off. Stunned, Steve tried the door anyway, but it had been locked tight.

Standing, still tugging impotently at the door’s brass handle, Steve couldn’t take his eyes off the pencil set in the window, knowing that he’d never get to purchase the leads in time to finish his present. “All I want is to give Bucky a nice gift . . .” Steve whispered, despair turning to numbing acceptance. This had been his last chance; the other stores had all shut down as well. All of the local businesses closed at three for Christmas Eve.

He had failed; all the wanting in the world hadn’t helped, of course.

Letting his hand drop from the icy metal, Steve shoved his hands deep into his pockets and turned with his back to the wind. He felt the small push aiding him in his return home, but it brought no joy, no relief. Still soaked through, lungs still feeling tight - - and Bucky’s present still sat undone in his small, scarred desk.

At half past, Steve fumbled his key to the lock on the door only to have it wrench open and a strong hand snap out to wrench him inside by the wet woolen coat. Bucky pulled him into a fierce hug, almost crushing his smaller frame with his intense greeting.

Then Steve’s best friend and roommate pulled back and growled in a menacing tone, “where the hell were you, Steve?”

Steve turned to shut and lock their door. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it, dripping, on the coat rack and set his gloves on the old newspaper next to it then squatted down to work at his galoshes and shoes. Unable to meet Bucky’s anger and fear head on, Steve sighed, “went to get some pencils, Buck, but the stores were closed . . . or didn’t have ‘em . . . or charged more’n they’re worth.”

Bucky’s low tone hadn’t changed as he ground out, “ya just got outta bed after a two week lung fever to go buy pencils in the worst storm to hit New York in a decade?” Shaking his head, light eyes narrowed, Bucky snapped, “what the hell were ya thinkin’, ya stupid punk!?”

Steve stood, meeting Bucky’s heated gaze at last. “I wanted to use ‘em to make your present, Bucky. I ain’t got a chance to barely work on it, I was so sick. All I wanted was to give ya somethin’ nice for Christmas!”

His best friend slowly shook his head, the anger, the accusations falling away until only fear and worry remained. “Steve, ya coulda gotten sick all over again!” Bucky grabbed Steve’s shoulders and gave him a small shake for emphasis.

Shaking his head, Steve said, “All I wanted . . .”

Suddenly Bucky pulled Steve into a tight hug all over again. He growled into Steve’s ear, “and all I want for Christmas is you!”


End file.
